


In His Cups

by still_lycoris



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Consensual Somnophilia, Drunk Sex, Guilt, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 03:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10982538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/still_lycoris/pseuds/still_lycoris
Summary: Hank's pretty sure that it's wrong to want Charles while he's drunk. But that doesn't stop the want ...





	In His Cups

It was wrong to be aroused by it.

Hank knew that. Of course he did. That was why he was trying so very, very hard _not_ to be aroused by it.

There hadn’t really seemed any harm in letting Charles crawl into bed with him at first. In fact, it had seemed like there would be more harm in pushing him out – Charles had clutched at him so desperately that it had felt cruel. And it hadn’t been so bad to have Charles curled against him in the night. Charles was warm and Hank could feel him breathing and knew he was all right and that was something that mattered. Before that, Hank had sometimes lain awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering if this was the night Charles might pass out in a drunken stupor and never wake up again. This way, he knew that Charles was alive.

He couldn’t quite pinpoint when this strange, sick fascination had begun. It had been building inside him for a while, a growing sense of pleasure when Charles crawled in and cuddled up, the enjoyment of Charles’s familiar scent and easy touch. But he’d been able to ignore it, dismiss it as nothing important. Just an quirk of spending so much time together.

Then one night, he woke as Charles crawled in, as Charles pawed at him with clumsy hands and slurred “Lemme stay?” and Hank found himself shivering. And when Charles sank into his drunken sleep, one arm thrown carelessly over Hank’s chest, Hank felt his stomach cramp with sudden, greedy heat.

It wasn’t the fact that it was Charles. He could have borne that, borne it quite willingly. He adored Charles, he had for a long time and they had been alone together for what seemed like forever, falling in love with him wasn’t exactly a surprise. He had been aware of that before this, even if he’d ignored it. Yes, he liked Charles ... but that wasn’t the reason for what he felt now.

It was Charles’s … looseness. The way his limbs draped so heavily when he was drunk, the way he breathed so deeply, the way he nuzzled clumsily into Hank’s neck, the way he lay there so warm and soft and trusting … how would it feel to touch him now? How good would it be to stroke his hands over Charles's chest, nuzzle his neck, kiss and touch him, slowly enter him ...

How could he be feeling like this? What was _wrong_ with him, to be getting aroused when Charles was draped over him, so deeply asleep as to practically be unconscious? And how could his arousal be _built_ on that? It was sick, it was disgusting, it was _dirty_. 

He held himself as stiff as he could, even tried to pull away but Charles mumbled and clung, flinging a leg around Hank’s to hold him still and God, it was worse like that because he found himself picturing scenarios where Charles kept cuddling, where Charles was aroused and sleepy and needed Hank’s help with that, slow, sleepily rocking against Hank …

At some point in his miserable fantasies, he fell asleep and woke up to found that he’d wound himself as much around Charles as Charles had around him. He pulled back and Charles moaned and put his hand to his head as he always did and Hank was able to lose himself in the miniature of the day and tried to pretend it hadn’t happened.

But the next time Charles arrived at his door and struggled into bed with him, smelling of scotch and resting his heavy head on Hank’s shoulder, it all came flooding back in a rush of twisted desire that made Hank cringe with loathing.

“Charles, maybe, maybe you shouldn’t … ”

“Please?” Charles’s voice was thick. “Don’t, don’t make me be on my own, please, need to be with you … ”

And how could he refuse that? How could he deny Charles such a direct request? He just had to be strong, he had to push this away and just focus on Charles, like he always had. And Charles wasn’t always drunk, sometimes he was almost sober when he scrambled into bed with Hank and that was easier and surely, surely, it would get easier not to think the bad thoughts if he focused on that …

But it wouldn’t go away. It lurked within him, feeling black and rotten and rearing up whenever Charles crawled in with him. Sometimes now it sparked when he saw Charles drinking; a wretched little hope that Charles would drink enough that he’d want to crawl in tonight, cuddle up all warm and loose and _easy_ …

When he realised he couldn’t get rid of it, he tried to control it. All right, it was dirty and wrong but as long as he never, ever acted on it, as long as he never put his hands on Charles except in the gentle way that was long established between them, it was all right. He couldn’t control his thoughts but he could control his actions, he could resist the temptation of Charles’s body.

And if his fantasies when he touched himself were almost always about Charles drunk and relaxed, about arranging those beautifully pliable limbs about him, well, that was something else.

Then Charles kissed him.

Hank hadn’t expected it. Charles had crawled in as normal, burrowed down next to Hank in his usual way. Hank put his arm around Charles’s shoulders, petted his hair gently to show that Charles was welcome (and warm and wonderful and _wanted_ …)

“Glad you’re here,” Charles mumbled. “So glad ... ”

“I’m glad you’re here too,” Hank said honestly, trying to resist the urge to curl strands of Charles’s hair through his fingers. “It’s all right Charles. Go to sleep.”

But Charles lifted himself up a bit and peered at Hank in the dark and reached up a fumbling hand to try and touch Hank’s face and Hank shivered and caught hold of the fingers before Charles could accidentally poke him in the eye.

“It’s fine, Charles.”

“I love you,” Charles said thickly and then he leaned forward and clumsily bumped his mouth against Hank’s and before he could stop himself, before he could even think, Hank was kissing back, hungry and desperate because Charles, _Charles_ had started this and so it was okay, it had to be okay and he’d wanted this for so long …

Charles moaned softly and wriggled and Hank caught him in his arms, holding him close. God, he was so warm, he was so, so perfect, so drunk ...

Oh god, no, he couldn’t.

“C-charles, stop.”

Charles moaned and shook his head, trying to bring their lips together again but he was drunk and Hank was strong and it was easy to gently flip Charles onto his back and hold him down (wonderfully easy, Charles was so helpless, oh, oh … )

“Please,” Charles breathed, staring up at him, clumsily trying to curl a leg around Hank to pull him close again. “I want … ”

“You’re drunk,” Hank whispered back. “You’re drunk Charles, I, it wouldn’t be responsible … ”

“Don’t care. Want to get fucked.”

Oh God, he _hurt_ with lust, he _hurt_ and the Beast was surging inside him and he didn’t want to think about what it would do if it took control now, if it got into his body with Charles lying easy and warm and pretty beneath him …

“ _No_ , Charles.”

He got off the bed and left the room, praying Charles was too drunk to think of prising himself out and following because he knew if Charles found him again, he wouldn’t be able to fight this any more, he’d want too much and he’d _take_ and in the morning, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.

He hid in the only room he was sure Charles wouldn’t stumble into and curled on Raven’s long-untouched bed, feeling ashamed and painfully aroused and hating that he kept replaying Charles’s mouth on his and the way his body had lazily and sluggishly moved against Hank’s body …

He barely slept and went to make breakfast feeling tired and sick with guilt. To his surprise, Charles was already there, curled in a chair and cradling a mug of coffee.

“Did I say anything awful last night?”

He had asked the question before, more than once. On occasion, Charles got drunk and hated the world and Hank was his only target. Hank had put up with barbs and jibes, reminding himself over and over that Charles didn’t mean them, it was just the pain of everything. And Charles would always apologise the next day, guilty and ashamed. He had stopped doing this so much now, got better at controlling his rage but he still worried and so Hank was always ready for the question.

“No,” he reassured now. “You didn’t say anything, Charles.”

“Oh. Good. I … wasn’t sure.”

“It’s fine,” Hank said, not looking at him. “Really.”

“I just worried, waking up in your bed without you.”

Charles sounded oddly awkward and Hank suddenly wondered if Charles _remembered_ and what did that mean, what did he _think?_

“It must frustrate you, I know,” Charles said quietly. “Having to look after a drunk like me. I know how hard it must be.”

“I don’t mind, Charles. Please.”

He hated to hear Charles talk like this. He just wanted this part of the day finished so they could go back to their quiet existence.

Charles got up and moved over to him, putting his hand on Hank’s shoulder. His hand was warm and Hank found himself looking away from him, not sure what to make of this sudden display.

“Sometimes … sometimes I say things I don’t mean when I’m drunk, I know that,” Charles said quietly. “But sometimes, I do mean them. You … you’re allowed to …if there’s something you want, something you _need_ … ”

Hank could feel his face turning crimson. He wanted to pull away, wanted to tell Charles that he had no idea what Charles meant. Instead he found himself standing still, looking at Charles, trying to see what he was thinking.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Charles said. “Consider this permission, Hank. If that’s what you want. If I ask you for something ... this is permission to grant it.”

He leaned up and gave Hank a very soft kiss on the cheek, a mere brush of the lips. Then he let Hank go and left the room. Hank stared after him, aware that he was trembling slightly. Surely he’d misunderstood. Surely that hadn’t been … what it sounded like it had been …

After all, Charles didn’t remember, did he? And … and could he possibly agree to something when he was so drunk? All right, he was sober now but could you agree to something that you might want when you were drunk when you were sober?

He was very aware that his thoughts didn’t make any sense. He was aware that he was panicking and that his mind was everywhere. But Charles couldn’t have, _couldn’t_ have meant what he said because why would he? Why would he want Hank to touch him like that while he was drunk, potentially so drunk as to be insensible?

Except he had wanted it, hadn’t he? He’d been the one to kiss Hank and try to touch him and begged him not to stop. And if he _did_ remember and if he _did_ mean it …

Hank’s stomach twisted as he pictured Charles again; Charles drunk and warm and limp beneath him. Charles drunk and warm and limp and welcoming, allowed to be touched because Charles had said so ...

Oh God, he _wanted_.

Charles didn’t come to him that night. Or the next. If he drank, he drank alone and slept alone too. Hank tried not to think, tried not to let any of it get into his mind but it lingered there, a desperate hope that itched inside him.

Then Charles came.

“Hank. My Hank. Can't sleep.”

“Come to bed with me then,” Hank whispered and closed his eyes as Charles snuggled down with him, warm and soft.

“Kiss me, Hank?”

“If you want me to,” he said breathlessly and he pressed his mouth to Charles's, marvelling at the softness of Charles's mouth, the way his lips parted so easily beneath Hank's.

“Nice,” Charles slurred and he kissed again, sucking at Hank's lower lip. Hank moaned, tightening his grip, holding him close. Charles wrapped his arms around his neck, nuzzling, making little noises, such lovely little noises. Hank kissed him harder, stronger. Charles moved against him, a steady, slow movement as though he wasn't quite sure what to do with his body.

“Hank … ”

“It's okay,” Hank whispered. “It's all okay Charles. Here, let me … ”

He rearranged Charles carefully, finally indulging that fantasy of draping those lovely, loose arms around him, helping Charles curl his legs too. Charles obeyed every command, leaning up to snatch little kisses, drowsy and cooperative. Hank thought he was going to burst. He could hardly breathe from desire, only increased by Charles's sweet idleness.

“You're so beautiful,” he whispered. “Charles, I want you … ”

“Okay,” Charles agreed, eyelids drooping, His body was heavy when Hank peeled the clothes off him. He was only half-hard, probably because of the amount he'd drunk but he all but purred when Hank stroked his skin. Hank revelling in the way Charles's deep breaths hitched very slightly at each touch, it made him want more, more, _more_ ... 

“I won't hurt you,” he murmured soothingly as he gently rolled Charles onto his side, reaching down to prepare him with careful fingers. “I won't hurt you, I've got you, I'm going to take care of you, my Charles, my darling Charles, not going to hurt you, ever, I've got you … ”

Charles's responded but it was drowsy, incoherent. He reached to touch Hank but his hand seemed too heavy to do so now. Hank nuzzled his neck.

“It's fine, Charles. Don't worry. Don't worry about anything.”

Charles fell asleep as Hank fucked him – either that or he passed into a drunken stupor, it was hard to tell. Hank held him close, cooed in his ear as he thrust carefully and slowly, relishing all of it, every delightful sensation of Charles's heavy body. He came quicker than he wanted to but he continued to enjoy himself, touching Charles slowly and gently until he fell asleep too.

He woke when Charles made a little groaning noise and reaching for the painkillers that he always kept the bedside drawer. For a moment, he felt a flicker of fear, fear that Charles hadn't really meant it, that he would be horrified to find them naked together …

But Charles took the painkillers and gave him a rather queasy smile.  
“Good morning, Hank.”

“Good morning,” Hank answered, his heart beating awkwardly.

“Was it good?” Charles asked softly and Hank could feel himself blushing. He nodded his head very slightly and Charles smiled.

“Good,” was all he said.

He leaned up then and kissed Hank's lips lightly before sliding out of the bed. Hank watched him go, confused warmth surging in his chest. It was all right. It was okay. Charles was fine with it all.

And he would be able to do it again without shame.


End file.
